Set Fire to the Rain
by EvanescingSky
Summary: England just wants to enjoy a nice, relaxing weekend away from all the craziness...especially France. But the arts fair in Nice is in full swing and France needs a buddy to go with him. The solution? Charm Angleterre of course! EnglandxFrance.


England just wants to enjoy a weekend of peace with no visits from America and no sexual harassment from France...unfortunately for him, France has other plans! But does England misread France's intentions?

Rated T for: Sex (non-explicit) and England's cursing

If you fav this, please comment! I want to know what you liked so I can write more in the future! If you hated it, tell me why! Negative comments can help authors get better!

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><p>Set Fire to the Rain<p>

England sat back in his chair, sighing with pleasure as he unfolded the newspaper. Today was going to be a lovely day of relaxation. There were no World Council meetings, no pending wars, no dire military conflicts…and best of all, no surprise visits from America. In fact, no visits from ANYONE. England had purposefully told absolutely no one that he was taking a nice vacation in Liverpool. It wasn't too far from London, yet it allowed him a glorious solitude from the rest of the obnoxious beings that called themselves nations.

_At last, a wonderful weekend with no France! No fighting with him, no being groped by him, no listening to his irritating laugh! This is going to be enjoyable, _England thought to himself, settling in his chair. He was sitting outside a quaint little café with a scone on his plate and a steaming coffee mug in front of him. Surely things couldn't get better. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of being at ease. This had to be the best, right? Of course it was. A whole weekend with no France. And no America, of course. But France was the real annoyance. Like a bloody fly, never knowing when to give up. Even thinking of him made England unconsciously grip his newspaper tighter, crumpling the edges.

"This is the life," he said out loud to himself.

"Then you really need to get out more," said a horribly familiar voice.

Almost dreading to do so, England lowered the newspaper. Grinning back at him from the opposite side of his table was fucking France. Sitting there, all smug! With his stupid, girly button down shirt and jeans, his ridiculous hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, his eyes glittering with victory. Fucking France! Ruining England's peace!

"What the hell are you doing, you bloody stalker?" England yelped, jerking away as though France were a large and deadly spider.

"Waiting for you to notice me," France said casually, still smiling that infuriating smile.

"Well fuck off!" England snapped, feeling like this was an appropriate time to let loose with some curse words. Fucking France. Who did he think he was, anyway? The fucking Queen? "I'm trying to enjoy some peace and quiet here!"

"Is that so?" purred France, leaning across the small table. "You seemed rather agitated even before I announced my presence. Is something bothering _mon cher Angleterre_?"

"Don't use your idiotic nicknames for me!" England was furious. How dared France march in here like he owned the place and then not even have the grace to apologize? "How the devil did you find me, anyway?"

"Sealand told me that he wished you'd invited him along to Liverpool." France wrinkled his nose at the distasteful name. Why name a town after the worst part of an animal? There were no cities with the name Stomachwater. It was just nasty.

Godammit. Fucking Sealand. How did he find out anyway! "Well I'm here to get away from people. Namely, YOU. So get the fuck out!" England snarled, snapping his paper back up in front of his face like it would make France vanish if he couldn't see him anymore. France was silent for a few dangerous moments.

"You sound so tense, _cheri_." France was edging too close to his seductive voice for England's liking. That and the fact that his voice now sounded right by England's ear. He yipped in surprise and nearly tipped his chair over. "You need to relax," France said matter-of-factly. He started to massage England's shoulders.

"That's what I was trying to do you fucking wanker! Stop touching me!" England tried to pull away, but France moved with him. And the massage felt…good. Amazingly good. England barely stopped a moan from escaping his lips. Oh, that was the spot! That was nice! Oh, yes!

France smirked, knowing he had hit England's sweet spot. He leaned down and whispered in England's ear. "You know, I came to ask if you wanted to attend the arts fair in Nice with me. It's nice and sunny this time of year. Well, all times of the year, really. It should be a refreshing change for you, since it always rains here!"

"It doesn't always rain here!" England made another feeble attempt to escape the massage, but France gently pulled him back and England didn't fight him. "Why would I want to go anywhere with you anyway? You try to molest anyone who gets within five feet of you."

"I only try to spread _l'amour_! There is so little of it in this tragic world!" France cried dramatically, pausing in his massaging to throw an arm across his forehead in a melodramatic fashion. "Someone must try to share a bit of _amour!_"

"You're such a drama queen," England muttered.

"But about the fair," France prompted him, moving his massage to England's lower back. The island nation leaned forward with a small sigh so France could get at his tight muscles better. "Today is the last day and it's very beautiful," he tempted. "Even a former delinquent such as yourself would be able to appreciate the _incroyable_ art at this festival!"

"Fine," England relented in a voice barely audible. "I'll go to the damn festival. But only if you promise to leave me alone after that."

"If that's what you want, I shall," France promised.

So the two men set off for Nice to go to the arts fair. France was nearly catatonic with joy and pride at his nation, showing off everything there was to see to England. He bought him another pastry and coffee at a small café and, despite England's protests that he'd already eaten breakfast, made him sit down and finish the whole thing. England would never admit it, but both the croissant and the coffee tasted like something handed down from God in Heaven. Every time they passed an interesting building or monument, a good restaurant, a unique store or a cool French sports car, France would stop and exclaim over it, pointing out its many benefits to England. England, for the most part, felt pulled along for the ride. But he had to admit to himself, it wasn't SO bad. France wasn't trying to feel him up at any rate.

At last they reached the actual fair. The streets were crowded with people dressed in the most outlandish, yet stylish, manners possible along with stands packed full of all kinds of art: paintings, sculptures, figurines, bags, shoes, jewelry, food…some of the things on display England hadn't even known could be classified as art! Like the handmade cords for hanging one's sunglasses from. He said something about it to France and France insisted on buying him one, though England was sure he didn't know what he'd use it for; he rarely wore sunglasses.

"Isn't it just amazing? _Magnifique__!_" France sighed contentedly, hooking his hands together behind his head as they walked down a sidewalk just another street over from the fair setup. Hours had passed and it was late afternoon; England was eating a crepe France had bought for him to snack on. A bag hanging from his arm held various trinkets France had purchased for him: the sunglasses cord, a scroll with his name 'Arthur' in elegant Chinese script, a cup in the shape of a fish.

"The art is quite unique," England admitted, trying to gnaw off a bit of his crepe in the most dignified way possible. That didn't stop France from snickering at his clumsy attempt. "What's so funny?" England demanded defensively.

"You've got whipped cream all over your face, _mon amour_," France laughed. They stopped walking for a moment and France used his thumb to wipe off the whipped cream on England's cheek. England felt his face heating up and he used his free hand (the one that wasn't clutching the paper crepe plate) to pathetically swat France's hand away.

"Stop that," he protested. But it sounded weak, even to him.

"You don't like the way I get the food off your face?" France asked, looking and sounding genuinely hurt. He gazed at England with those great pools of blue and actually managed to make the Englishman feel guilty for pushing him off.

"No I don't!" he declared. Fucking France! Trying to make him feel like a fool!

"Then I'll do it a different way!" France announced. He grabbed England's face and kissed him, sucking the whipped cream off his lips and chin as he did so. England struggled beneath his grip, but France proved to be stronger than he looked and held England in place until he was finished. "Is that better?" he asked, wiping his mouth off with a devilish grin.

"You bloody wanker!" England yelled, his face crimson. "What the f-" He stopped short of unleashing a storm of cusses on France when he saw a woman walk by with a baby stroller. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I know _Angleterre_ doesn't like to appear messy in public," France said innocently. "So I thought I'd help and clean you up."

"Not with your mouth, you pervert!"

"Well you should have been more clear," France said with a shrug, starting off towards a new stand. "You never told me not to."

"That's because I couldn't speak!" England nearly screamed, ready to tear his hair out with frustration over fucking France's attitude. He ditched the rest of the crepe in a nearby trashcan and caught up reluctantly with his companion.

"Ohonhonhonhon! My kissing leaves _Angleterre_ speechless!" France cried triumphantly. He threw an arm around England's shoulders. "Don't worry _cher_, many women feel that way as well." He winked a hateful blue eye at England, who pried his arm off.

"Don't touch me! How many times do I have to tell you that?" England fell into a pout, unable to make France see reason and tired of digging himself deeper into a hole. He crossed his arms and wouldn't meet France's eyes; his face still felt like it was on fire.

Many of the stands were packing up when they had finished browsing light switch covers (hand-made, of course) and the sky was darkening.

"Did you feel that?" France asked, holding a hand out. "I think I felt a raindrop."

"You French are so pathetic," England sulked. "A little drizzle and you run for cover."

France shook his head, undeterred by England's bad attitude. "There's one last thing I wanted to show you," he said with a smile. "Follow me." Heaving another sigh, England trotted after France, wondering what else France could possibly show him.

Before they got to wherever France had planned on taking him, the 'little drizzle' England had scoffed at earlier had turned into a full blown downpour. The rain soaked them both instantly and pounded so hard against the cobblestone road it was impossible to hear each other. France grabbed England's wrist and pulled him to shelter beneath a puny overhang in front of a restaurant.

"Well this is cozy, isn't it?" France said cheerily. They were pressed together, their legs tangled up as they strove to stay out of the rain.

"No it is not! Let me go, I'm going to find shelter somewhere else," England said heatedly, drawing away from France.

"Wait, _Angleterre_! I have a better place." He headed off down the road and waved for England to follow. For a moment, England hesitated. Then, reluctantly realizing France knew this place like the back of his hand and would be much more likely to know a suitable place to escape the rain, turned again and followed France.

The perky blonde led them to a very posh-looking hotel and ushered England in. He charmed the receptionist and got them a room with a great view of the town.

"_Allons-y_!" France called, striding over to the elevator. England came in with him and about as soon as the door closed, France started to peel off his shirt.

"What the hell are you doing?" England shrieked, flattening himself against the far wall.

"What?" France asked, wringing out his shirt. "It's sopping wet. Plus it's see-through anyway once it gets wet."

Turning red again, England realized this was true. "Well that's no excuse to take your shirt off! If you didn't wear such stupid clothing this wouldn't happen! What if a lady walks in?"

"Then she will enjoy the view." France grinned and pulled England against his bare chest. "Don't you?"

"Let me go you wanker!" England yelled, hitting any part of France he could reach. The Frenchman merely laughed ("honhonhonhon!") in a manner that made England immediately want to kill him and retreated to his corner of the elevator. Watching him from the corner of his eyes, England couldn't help but feel a strong pang of jealousy. How did France manage to stay so fit? The bloody pig was always stuffing himself! And yet here he was, looking like fucking Adonis! _Get a grip Arthur! This is fucking FRANCE you're thinking of! That should be his new name: Fucking France. It was accurate. As in: Fucking France is so fucking annoying with his fucking sexy-_England strangled that train of thought before it could go any further and ruin his calm.

As if he could tell what was going on in England's mind, France got that smug smile plastered all over his face and England stifled the urge to smack it off. It seemed like centuries before the elevator reached their floor and England quickly stepped out and strode off down the hall, not wanting to be anywhere close to France anymore.

"Do you have plans to spend the night with someone else, _amour_?" France called from a ways down the hall, sounding amused. England looked back and saw him ready to walk in the opposite direction. Blushing furiously, England caught up with France and kept his eyes on his feet as he followed the shirtless man to their room.

France strolled in as if it were his own house, tossed his shirt over the back of a chair sitting at a cramped desk behind the door, sat down on the bed and began to tug his shoes off.

"Are all French hotels this small?" England grumbled. "And why the hell is there only one bed?"

France laughed again (Honestly, one of these days England was going to strangle him for that fucking laugh) and threw his shoes and socks in a pile at the base of wall.

"We need more room for restaurants!" he cried dramatically. "And besides," he rolled off the bed and came over to England, getting way too close for comfort, "we don't mind being close together. If the bed bothers you, you can sleep on the floor." He walked into the bathroom and closed the door (Thank God!) while England took off his shoes as well. He might as well, he'd be here a while. He unbuttoned his jacket and carefully draped it over the chair back, shoving France's sodden shirt off onto the floor. He went over to their large window and looked out. It was still drenching the streets out there, so there was no chance of escaping France for the night. And what was taking him so long?

"Not that I care," England said to himself as he unbuttoned his wet shirt. "The longer he's in there the more peace I get."

"You wound me, _Angleterre_," France said from behind him. _Speak of the devil! _"I was going to sneak up behind you and give you a kiss on the cheek, but if you truly find my company so repugnant, I'll refrain." France again had that disarmingly injured look, as if England had truly hurt him with his words. Again, England felt uncomfortable gazing into the earnest blue eyes of the Frenchman. France came over and stood next to him, wearing nothing but his jeans. "Do you really dislike me so much?" he asked in a whisper.

"I-" England had been about to promptly agree with that statement, when France's face made him rethink it. Did he really hate France all that much? How could he say yes when France looked like he might start crying? Damp locks of blonde hair hung in his face and water droplets slid down his cheeks, mimicking the tears which seemed imminent. "I think you're really annoying," he said at last. "And sometimes I want to slap that obnoxious, smug smile off your face. The way you chase everyone around really gets to me sometimes."

"Please, continue." France looked slightly entertained. He shuffled closer, nearly closing the distance between England and France's naked torso. Absently, to avoid looking at France's face, England watched a water bead slid down France's abs. "Is there anything else I do that bothers you?"

"Yes, there is," England growled. "I hate how you can make any situation awkward!"

"Perhaps it's not I who is making things awkward," France suggested. He didn't touch England, but the way his eyes were locked on England's green ones made it feel twice as invasive. England opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. He closed it again, feeling completely idiotic. "You're blushing again," France whispered, his voice as soft as a feather. He reached out and laid the back of his hand against England's cheek.

"It's hot in here," England mumbled, scooting backwards and running into the edge of the bed before he got an entire step.

"But you have goose bumps." France ran his fingertips light as air across England's stomach and chest. Sure enough, goose bumps sprang out across his treacherous skin.

"I…I…" An excuse failed to rise to England's tongue.

"Tell me, my precious _Angleterre_, do you think me handsome?" France asked seductively, looping his arm around England's waist and pulling them close enough that their stomachs touched.

"In a girly sort of way," England said hoarsely, the sting all but indistinguishable from the tremor in his voice.

"Arthur…" France used his free hand to tilt England's face up to look him in the eyes. England felt a shiver run down his back in stark contrast with the heat he felt on his face and chest, both from France's touch and his use of England's human name.

"Fra-" he began, but he was cut off by France's mouth over his. He remained still for a moment before he threw himself into the kiss with reckless abandon. He dug his fingers through France's damp hair, pulling it free from the hairband and wrapping it around his fingers. In one smooth move, France lowered him to the bed and knelt over him, keeping their lips locked.

"I knew you would melt eventually, _ma cœur_," France gasped, already undoing England's trousers.

England though to protest, but he knew this battle was already lost. With a moan of desire, he threw himself into France's embrace once more and they collapsed into the sheets. The chill from the rain was quickly set aflame in the heat of their passion.

"Remember that thing I wanted to show you?" France panted as he looked down at England, sweat forming a thin veil across his pale skin, his wet locks forming a blonde frame around his delicately shaped face.

"Yes," England croaked, keeping his eyes fixed on France's face as if it were a lifeline.

"This was it." France ducked down and attacked England's mouth with his own again.

_Best sightseeing of the day._

"Mmm…" England rolled over, bright sunshine nearly blinding him.

"Awake, _cheri_?" trilled a French voice.

England forced open one sleepy eye. He didn't instantly recognize where he was. When he recalled the events of the previous day, he felt his cheeks heat up and he pressed his face into his pillow to hide the smile that threatened to break across his face. When he looked up again, he noticed just how small the bed was. It had seemed much bigger last night. However, he and France could barely fit on it together. As it were, they were caught up in a tangle of limbs and twisted sheets. England's legs were mostly draped over France, who didn't seem to mind.

"Mmm…what time is it?" England groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Ten o'clock, _mon cher_," France droned.

"Ten o'clock? Bloody hell, why didn't you wake me?" England exclaimed, but he made no move to get off the bed.

"Who wants to get up early? Like I said yesterday: you need to relax, take it easy, Arthur." France threw his name out there casually, like it didn't remind him of the way he had moaned it the night before like it did England. England could barely hear his name from France's mouth without getting vivid pictures in his head of the previous night that were so real it made the blood drain from his face.

"Well…should we go get some breakfast, Francis?" England offered, giving France a tentative smile. France's name sounded strange and foreign on his tongue, like it knew it was too cool to hang around on an English tongue. But if France was going to toss England's name around, England felt like he needed to be as at ease with using France's.

"_Comme tu le souhaites*_," France said carelessly, swinging his legs free of the mess with effortless grace and throwing on his clothes. They were still slightly damp from the rain yesterday and England could see the outline of France's shoulder muscles as he re-tied his hair. "_Allons-y, Angleterre_!" France said, motioning for England to get up. "Unless you'd rather look at me." He winked and England rolled his eyes.

"I still think you're horribly annoying," England declared, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets. He ended up falling on the floor and cracking his head on the wall. "Bloody hell!"

"Walk it off, _Angleterre_," France said breezily.

Grumbling to himself, England got to his feet and started to hurriedly dress himself.

"Why the rush, Arthur?" France straddled England from behind as he bent down to tug his pants on. "Don't want me to see you naked? I saw plenty of that last night…"

"Stop that!" England cried, blushing tomato red. It was as if France KNEW the effect using his human name had on him now! He moved away from France and zipped up his trousers. "And it was dark last night," he added in his defense.

"Lights on is so tacky," France sighed, doing up his shoelaces and standing by the door.

England refrained from comment and finished getting dressed. The pair made their way down to the lobby and enjoyed a nice breakfast of odiferous, sweet French _pain au chocolatés_ and fresh orange juice. Most of the other guests had dined and left for the day already, so the dining room was fairly empty. England finished first and sipped his juice slowly as he waited for France. When at last the Frenchman pushed his plate aside and leaned back on the seat, England contemplatively swirled the remains of his orange juice and dared to pose a question.

"What are we going to do today?"

"Hm?" France had been busy watching the passing traffic from the window. "Oh, yes. Well, I have important things to do," he said with a shrug. "I have to be off. You can feel free to amuse yourself about the city if you want." He slid out of the bench seat and made for the door.

"Wait!" England called. France stopped. "That's it? You're just going to…leave?"

"Did you expect something else?" The way France asked it, the way he raised one blonde eyebrow, made England feel infinitely foolish for thinking that he and France would spend another day together like yesterday. But surely…surely he had not just been a bedfellow to France? Now that he thought about it…all the things that had been said last night…never once had France said anything pertaining to his heart. All his confessions had been purely related to his sexual attraction to England. England realized his mistake, how incredibly stupid he had been and he thanked God he hadn't said the L word. He wasn't completely tanked. But at the same time, he felt a slow spike being driven into his heart. For one indescribable night, he had allowed himself to believe France cared. And the fucking moron didn't even seem to notice. _God damn fucking France!_

"I guess not," he mumbled. He was unable to muster the energy to be acerbic. His heart felt too sore. He couldn't find it in him to accuse France. After all, had he not accused France last night of doing this very thing to countless others? That would just throw into light his own stupidity.

"Cheri." France strode over and gave him a peck on the jaw. "If you want to see me again, give me a call, non?" He smiled and sashayed out of the room. A few moments later, England watched him walk away from the hotel and knew he had been dismissed.

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><p>*As you wish. Also note that France uses 'tu', the informal form of 'you' rather than 'vous', the more respectful, formal version of 'you'.<p> 


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